


Words Won’t Come

by FinAmour, unicornpoe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: And a little bit of angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, soft bois
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 08:26:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17321456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour, https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornpoe/pseuds/unicornpoe
Summary: John wants to take Sherlock’s wrist into his hand, to tether him close. Pull him in with a palm at the small of Sherlock’s back, press his forehead into the curve of Sherlock’s neck. Catch that heat, and hold it forever. Kiss him.He doesn’t. Instead, he settles for tea and awkward conversation.Fifteen minutes, tops, and John barely breathes the whole time.





	Words Won’t Come

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BookGirlWithLove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookGirlWithLove/gifts).



John loves her.

Loves her when she grips his hand with tiny, perfect fingers, like the two of them belong to one another. Loves her when she smiles at him as though he’s the one who hangs the moon, the sun, and every star. Loves her when her cheeks go round and pink and she dissolves into that sweet Rosie giggle—the one that melts each and every ounce of ice clinging to his heart. Loves her when she nuzzles her head beneath his chin while they drift off together, breathing in unison as the afternoon sun bathes them in pale golden warmth.

He loves her, he loves her, he loves her.

But not all moments are as perfect as these gentle, dream-filled ones. There are moments that are difficult; moments when John can’t remember if it’s Sunday or Wednesday or Friday or what month they’re even in. Moments when he wonders how he’ll make it through another clinic shift on only twenty minutes of sleep, let alone another night trying to keep her calm. Moments when he wonders if she’s eaten or if _he’s_ eaten or which sitter she’s going to this morning. Moments when he wonders if it’s acceptable to ride the tube with vomit on his jumper. Moments when he questions his sanity, his decisions, and his ability to function as a father, because she’s been crying and crying and crying for _hours_ and he can’t seem to make it stop.

He loves her, but there are moments when he very nearly forgets his own name. Moments when he feels so ashamed for just wanting to press the pause button on it all, to sleep for years, to return to the days he could do as he pleased. The days he could freely roam London at the heels of Sherlock, with no responsibilities looming in the background. Days he could simply exist within the comforting walls of 221B; settled in his armchair with a book and a mug of hot tea, and the promise of new cases on the horizon.

Days of Sherlock.

But John’s days aren’t his own anymore. His days belong to his daughter, now—and he loves her, he loves her, he loves her.

***

It’s different between the two of them: strained and desolate, just like they’ve been ever since...ever since everything. The man who was once John’s best friend (the best and wisest man he’s ever known) has become a bright but distant memory, like the ghastly remnants of a supernova.

Sometimes, when John drops Rosie off at Mrs. Hudson’s on Mondays, and John is tired, and the night has been long—the gravity of that faded supernova becomes too strong to resist. John can’t fight the pull to ascend the seventeen steps, to knock on the familiar door of 221B. To hope that Sherlock is home, but pray that he isn’t. To push back the feeling that he wishes he were home himself again, right here at Baker Street; the yearning he feels for these four walls, for his soft chair, for the clutter on every surface and the man that exists within.

Constant vigilance is what it takes, but that’s fine. John’s a soldier, after all.

Today is a Monday, and as steps creak underfoot; John swears they’re louder than they used to be. When Sherlock opens the door, John immediately notes the brittle slope of his thin shoulders, the way his dressing gown seems looser on him than before.

They stand for half a second; their gazes meet. Sherlock blinks slowly, and the corners of his eyes are drawn with thin lines. John wants to kiss them.

But somehow, _somehow_ —John resists the urge. Resists the urge to brush away the soft curls that rest against Sherlock’s temple; to fold Sherlock into his arms and hold him until all of their pain melts away. To tell Sherlock that he just wants to be _them_ again, John, and Sherlock, but with another tiny person in the mix.

Just the three of them against the rest of the world.

“Tea?” Sherlock asks softly, pulling the door open and stepping back so John can pass through. His feet are bare on the cold wood floor, and the hem of his tan dressing gown sways around his calves.

“I would if I had the time, but—” John begins, tearing his gaze away from Sherlock and glancing down blindly at his watch. “I just wanted to…” he trails off, looking up once more. Something achingly lonely about the expression on Sherlock’s face convinces John that he’s going to _make_ the time.

“It’s fine,” John backtracks with a smile. “I’ll just take the tube to avoid traffic.” His heart thumps as he closely watches Sherlock’s face for any hint of happiness.

The smile is barely there, but John still sees it. John smiles back, knowing that he isn’t fooling Sherlock any more than Sherlock is fooling him.

Sherlock shuffles as John moves in through the doorway, and John catches the heat of him like lightning against his skin. There, and gone again—a frisson of electricity. They move into the sitting room revolving around one another like planets, never touching; a galaxy held sterile in the confines of an echoing room.

John wants to take Sherlock’s wrist into his hand, to tether him close. Pull him in with a palm at the small of Sherlock’s back, press his forehead into the curve of Sherlock’s neck. Catch that heat, and hold it forever. Kiss him.

He doesn’t. Instead, he settles for tea and awkward conversation.

Fifteen minutes, tops, and John barely breathes the whole time.

***

They still text regularly—one might say often—but the messages are rarely more than the standard:

how have things been _(lonely)_

I’m fine _(I miss you)_

how are you _(Do you miss me too)_

Great _(I’d be better with you here)_

I’ll talk to you later _(I miss you I miss you I miss you)_

And though John’s interactions with Sherlock are few and far between for many weeks, there are moments when memories of Sherlock— _their_ memories—loom so large that John cannot escape them. Moments when a single word from Sherlock can strike a chord within John, nearly knocking him over with the force of affection he feels for this man. Moments when John will glance up from a text message and catch sight of himself smiling in the mirror. Moments when John holds Rosie close to his chest in the middle of the night, imagining they’re falling asleep to the promise of Brahms’ lullaby from Sherlock’s violin.

But these moments are as self-indulgent as they are fleeting. So John pulls himself away from them, doing what he must to be the best father he can be, because he loves her, he loves her, he loves her.

***

It’s a Monday (Friday? Wednesday? Yes, Monday), and Mrs. Hudson is due to watch Rosie.

Today, Rosie isn’t happy. John knocks on the door at Baker Street, and she squirms against the cold, crying in John’s arms as he bounces her as cheerfully as possible.

Mrs. Hudson isn’t the one who meets them at the door.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock says at the front entryway, hands clutched in front of him, but John can barely hear him over Rosie’s anguished sobs. “Mrs. Hudson has the flu. She had no time to call, as the onset was rather quick.”

John cups the back of Rosie’s head in his palm and hushes her softly, his own eyes briefly fluttering closed.

Mrs. Hudson has the flu.

Rosie is teething, and hasn’t stopped crying for three days, and John has to be at work in fifteen (Ten? Twenty? Yes, fifteen) minutes. And in moments like this, John wants to hold her as close as he can, and comfort her, and he wants nothing more than to just have _five minutes_ of silence to himself, although he loves her, and Mrs. Hudson has the flu.

John stares up at Sherlock blankly, too tired to muster up a response. “I—” John sways on his feet, swallowing thickly, hoping the words will form, and Sherlock’s hands lift the tiniest bit towards him.

 _Help me,_ John wants to say, though he’s got no business asking this man for anything. _Just… Sherlock—_

Rosie sobs, and the words won’t come.

Sherlock takes a single step closer to John, resting his hands on John’s arms where they are wrapped around his daughter. He tips his head forward to meet John’s gaze, the corners of his mouth lifting into a slight smile.

“John,” he urges gently, his voice sending tingles of comfort along John’s skin. “Allow me to take Rosie for the day.”

John sways a little closer, a glowing warmth invading his entire core, and he knows exactly what he wants to say next:

_Thank you, Sherlock. I’m so sorry, my dear friend. Sorry I’ve been distant, sorry I’ve been gone, sorry I haven’t allowed you to watch over Rosie before. Thank you for always being here for me, even when I think I don’t want you to be. Thank you for being my best friend after all we’ve been through._

But that’s not what he says. Rather:

“She’s due for another round of formula in about two hours.”

John hesitates, surprised at how worn his voice sounds, but Sherlock squeezes his elbows lightly; a signal to go on.

“She’s teething right now,” John continues, “and she’s crying rather a lot. She usually naps around eleven AM, and then again around two. I’ll be home—back—around a quarter to five.”

Rosie wails loudly, and John presses his lips to the top of her downy head, eyes still locked with Sherlock’s. Sherlock smiles at John again, quietly reassuring.

God, he’s lovely.

And with a swiftness that feels like a kick to the gut, John realises that he doesn’t want to leave them.

But just then, Sherlock wordlessly slides his hands from John’s elbows and underneath Rosie. She continues to cry as he wraps her in his hold, and though John loves her—he doesn’t resist when Sherlock takes her gently away, pulling her tiny, miserable body in and tucking her under his chin with a gentleness that takes John’s breath away.

“Hello, Watson,” he says to her, calm and confident. “It seems you and I are fated to spend the day together, so that Mrs. Hudson can rest, and your father can go on and care for others who are in a similar state.”

Sherlock stares down at her without the trace of bewilderment or insecurity that John might have predicted. He holds her as if it’s the simplest thing in the world—and the way Rosie seems to fit so easily into his arms warms John’s heart as much as it calms his bare nerves.

And like a miracle, Rosie’s crying dies off with a tiny hiccup, her sharp gasps beginning to slow as those tiny fingers cling to Sherlock’s. Her eyes are wide and blue; curious and trusting as they explore the planes of Sherlock’s enamoured face.

“That’s it, Watson,” Sherlock rumbles, his warm baritone deliberately soothing, and John’s heart beats frantically as it swells within his chest. “We’re going to be alright now, aren’t we?” Sherlock asks, eyes lifting to John’s and staying there.

 _Yes,_ John thinks to himself as he smiles at Sherlock. _Yes, we are._

***

John’s day is filled with stolen moments: shooting texts back and forth with Sherlock between flu-ridden patients and talkative coworkers. He tries not to worry; he’s nervous, anxious about leaving Rosie with Sherlock, though he doesn’t want to be.

With every text message he sends, however, he’s met with a response that alleviates his anxiety.

***

_Shit. You’ve cleaned up the chemicals from the counters, right?_

_John, I haven’t done experiments involving harmful chemicals inside the flat since Rosamund was born. SH_

_Wait. Really?_

_Of course not. I’m her godfather; I know it’s possible that I may be needed at a moment’s notice. Besides, Mrs. Hudson occasionally brings her up when she visits. SH_

_Oh. That’s good._

_So, um. Where do your experiments take place?_

_Bart’s, typically. Though I still often use the microscope here for everything non-toxic. SH_

_She likes the microscope, you know. I believe she may have an interest in molecular biology. SH_

_Sherlock, she’s barely ten months old._

_...Do you really think so?_

_Of course. She’s magnificently bright. SH_

_Just like her father. SH_

_***_

_Has she been fed? You heated the formula to 37 degrees, yes?_

_I did. And yes, she’s been fed, and I’ve just laid her down for a nap. SH_

_A nap?_

_How’s that going?_

_It’s going well, I think. SH_

_[Image attachment] SH_

_Oh. She looks so...peaceful._

_She’s beautiful. SH_

_Yes. Yeah, I think so, too._

_Thank you, Sherlock._

_It’s my pleasure. SH_

_***_

_I forgot to pack nappies, didn’t I?_

_God, I’m an idiot._

_Not to worry. I have a spare supply. SH_

_...Wait. You do?_

_From the last time you visited. I stopped by Tesco to pick them up for you. Remember? SH_

_Oh. Yes, I remember._

_***_

_On my way back to Baker Street. Should arrive in approximately half an hour._

_Very well. SH_

_How’s she doing?_

_She’s been crying on and off, as expected, but overall, we’ve had a wonderful day. SH_

_Yeah?_

_Glad to hear it._

_I miss her._

_She’s misses you, too, and is awaiting your return. SH_

_Both of us are. SH_

_Feel free to step in upon your arrival; no need to knock. SH_

***

John knocks anyway. He doesn’t feel validated in stepping right into 221B, though he can’t say it wouldn’t feel supremely right.

There’s no answer at first. John waits a few seconds before knocking again, and when there’s still silence, he calls Sherlock’s name.

Nothing. John panics, disregards his reservations, and walks through the door. Sherlock and Rosie aren’t waiting for him in the sitting room like he’d envisioned. Never in his wildest dreams could he have been prepared for what he sees and hears—

_Oh, I love my Rosie child…_

The tune floats from the kitchen, soft and melodic in John’s ears. He’s never heard Sherlock sing before, but he recognizes his voice immediately, just as surely as he recognizes Rosie’s sweet giggle that comes afterwards.  

 _She got the way to make me happy_ _  
_ _You and me, we go in style..._

Rosie rests in Sherlock’s arms, facing him. They’re both smiling; the evening light is mellow and soft, and it catches in the hidden auburn of Sherlock’s curls, the muted gold of Rosie’s. Sherlock cradles her gently as they stare at one another, so taken with each other that neither even notices John has entered the room.

And John can’t move, he can’t speak. He simply watches them, the joy bubbling inside of him overwhelming as he drinks in as much of this beautiful sight as he can.

Rosie giggles again as Sherlock executes a little twirl, spinning her around in his arms. His song is broken by a laugh of his own as Rosie gazes back up at him with an unreserved happiness.

John has never heard a more beautiful sound.

 _Cracklin' Rosie, make me a smile_  
_God if it lasts for an hour, that's all right_ …

The sight is so simple, yet there is a magic to it, a permanence John hasn’t yet dared to hope for. A rightness he can no longer deny, and with the joy that fills this flat, he no longer feels there’s a reason to.

Sherlock sways, John’s daughter in his arms, and she is happy, and Sherlock is happy. It’s all John’s wanted for longer than he can remember.

And John loves him.

Loves Sherlock when he finally looks up, their eyes catching as he breaks off mid-lyric to beam at John, his happiness completely unmasked. Loves Sherlock when he smiles at him with those perfect lips and blue eyes. Loves the lines that appear in the corner of those eyes, deeper and more beautiful with the strength of his smile. Loves Sherlock when he looks at John as if they belong to one another; as if he’s his entire universe, as if he needs him—this— _them_.

“John.”

John loves him, he loves him, he loves him.

He loves Sherlock because even through their trials, their terrors, nothing will take away the fact the he is John, and Sherlock is Sherlock.

John takes three strides across the kitchen to where the two most important people in his life stand, and Sherlock and Rosie meet him in the middle. John wraps his arms around both of them, lowering his head to kiss Rosie on the cheek, and then leaning forward to kiss Sherlock on the lips.

It’s soft and it’s simple. It says “I’m here. I’m home, my love,” and it’s the most natural thing that John Watson has ever done.

Sherlock’s breath is a little bit unsteady and his smile is tremulous when John raises his gaze. John smiles back, and he kisses him again.

Curling his fist loosely in the extra fabric at the small of Sherlock’s back, John pulls him closer, gripping him as tightly as he can while trying to slow the beating of his own heart. 

Sherlock hums with delight as he pulls away slowly, making to pass Rosie into John’s arms. John doesn’t take her, though—instead, he presses closer into Sherlock, keeping his arms wrapped around the both of them. And there they stand, all three, in the kitchen of 221B Baker Street, with silence ringing around them and warmth in their veins.

John loves them.

He loves them, he loves them, he loves them.

They don’t speak. Their breath comes easily, circulates between them like a binding weight has finally been lifted, and John shudders with the incandescent rightness of it all. His eyes fall closed as he breathes in the perfection of the moment, and on his exhale, he finally releases all he’s been holding back.

“Sherlock,” he whispers. “I miss you more than I can say. My life—without you, it’s not complete. _I’m_ not complete. I never thought it would be possible to have it all, to have my daughter and to keep you, but I see now that it’s possible.”

“Of course it’s possible,” Sherlock whispers. “She is a part of you, just as you are a part of me.”

“And you are a part of me,” John says. “You always have been, and always will be. And I’m sorry that it took me so long to—“

Sherlock hushes John gently, cupping his neck in his warm hand. “There’s no need to apologise, John,” he murmurs, his voice growing thick. “The two of you are worth it. Nothing that has happened—nothing that has been said or done between us or _to_ us—can change the fact that you’re worth every second of the wait.”

John swallows, feeling tears forming in his eyes. He doesn’t fight them.

“John,” Sherlock says, a breathy whisper against John’s scalp. “John. Come back home.”

John’s head dips to rest against Sherlock’s shoulder as he clings to him, his nose pressed into the fragrant fabric of his dressing gown. “I will,” he promises, voice hoarse. He looks down at Rosie. Her eyes are softly closed; John takes one of her small hands in his own and nods. _“We_ will.”

“Good.” The pressure from Sherlock’s lips is soft and gentle as he kisses the top of John’s head. And John kisses Sherlock’s shoulder, his collarbone, his neck, and he loves him, he loves him, he loves him.

He tells him.

“I love you, Sherlock,” John whispers. He lifts his head and Sherlock meets him, slotting their lips together once more.

John is kissing Sherlock Holmes, and his entire world is right here, inside the peaceful walls of Baker Street—and John knows now that this is where his world will always be.

Home.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written based on a tweet by our friend, @bookgirlwithlove:
> 
> “If I could write..I’d write about Rosie teething&crying constantly &John being slightly relieved to go to work just to breathe&comes home to R laughing while S is holding, dancing, singing “Cracklin’ Rosie” to her & he just can’t wait another second to tell Sherlock he loves him.”
> 
> We hope it’s to your liking :)
> 
> Listen to Niel Diamond’s song “Cracklin’ Rosie” here on [YouTube ](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=8pK50dcRVsU)!


End file.
